Stop treating him as if he were a little boy, he said.
He’s not a little boy anymore, but he’s still my child, she said.
He’s my child too, mind you, he said. And his hand, lying next to the hand brake, clenched into a fist.
When is he supposed to make his…final decision? I asked.
The deadline for the forms is next week, he said. But he’s already decided. You’re not listening, buddy.
What do you think, what would you advise him to do? she asked, giving me another quick glance.
What do I think? I repeated the question. Slowly. To gain some time. Maybe we’d suddenly arrive at the motel.
I shifted from where I was sitting. Until that moment, I’d been more behind her than behind him, and now I moved to a spot right in the middle, between the seats. The place my sister and I used to fight over during family trips.
Look, there are positive things to be said about both sides, I said. On the one hand—
Oh, come on, man, he said and punched the glove compartment. That’s what I can’t stand about your books too. There are so many points of view and voices, there’s no way of knowing what you really think. What do you bohemians call that, postmodern? Postmodern my ass. Sometimes you have to pick a side. That’s all there is to it. Come on. Choose.
Listen, it’s a complicated issue—
Just tell us what you think, man. Bottom line!
—
He pissed me off, that guy. His tone, and the fact that he called me buddy. And his patronizing comments to his wife about her driving—why don’t you drive yourself, you shit?—and I was also on edge because I hadn’t been able to fall asleep on the plane and that trip to the States was turning out to be a total professional flop. Just like the ones that preceded it.
What do I think? I fired back. I think there are ways to unite with your Israeli identity other than joining the army.
That’s exactly what I say, the woman said.
Don’t misunderstand me, I qualified my words. I’m not sorry I served in the army. It’s part of being a citizen in my country. It’s an obligation. But to join the army of your own free will? As an “experience”? Sorry, there are experiences that can contribute in much more positive ways to the development of an eighteen-year-old boy than shooting rubber bullets at children or standing at checkpoints.
Stop the car, the man told his wife in English.
There’s no place to stop here, she replied in Hebrew.
Stop the fucking car, he shouted. And closed his hand around the brake. As if he were planning to stop the car himself if she didn’t.
Okay, Effi, another minute! she said. And signaled. And looked at her side mirror. And looked at the mirror on the passenger side.
—
I was sure they were going to throw me out of the car. That happened to me once, with Ari. Before going into the army, we were invited to his uncle’s house in Eilat, and somehow, the conversation at dinner turned to politics. The next morning, we were politely asked to leave.
Why the hell don’t I learn from my mistakes?
My leg muscles were poised for movement. I even managed to wind my scarf around my neck. But when the car pulled over to the side of the road, he was the one who opened his door and stepped out into the raging snowstorm.
The slam of the door shook the chassis.
The woman and I stayed where we were.
It’s okay, she turned to me and said. He’ll come back in another few minutes.
You’re sure? It’s pretty stormy out there…
That’s what they taught him to do in the anger management course. A second before he loses control completely, he has to try to cut off contact. Simply move away from the situation. It usually helps.
And in the meantime…?
We wait. It’s only a few minutes, really. Want a piece of spearmint gum?
I said yes, even though I can’t stand spearmint. She handed me the pack and said, He’s really a bookworm, Effi. I want you to know that. He gets a shipment of books from Israel every week and devours them all in one weekend. He’s the one who insisted on bringing you to the Jewish Community Center.
Lightning flashed across the sky from one end to the other, like the terrifying lightning bolt on the cover of the Dire Straits’ album Love Over Gold. I’ve never seen lightning like that in Israel. It was followed by a tremendous clap of thunder.
Isn’t it a little…dangerous for him to be outside? I asked again.
There’s nothing to worry about, he’ll be right back, she said.
So when…in fact…did you leave Israel? I asked. So she would have something to answer.
In eighty-five, she said.
Wow, I said.
After the Lebanon War.
I understand.
Effi was…he was in the building that collapsed in Tyre.
I didn’t know there were any survivors in the Tyre disaster.
Very few.
Tell me, does he have a phone or something? Sorry for nagging you, but…
He left his phone here—she pointed to the phone in the coffee-cup holder—but this isn’t…this isn’t the first time he’s done this. And he always comes back in the end. Another piece of gum?
No thanks.
When we were in Israel, he used to write letters to the editor, you know, demanding that the government set up a national commission of inquiry.
For what?
He’s sure that it was a car bomb that destroyed the headquarters in Tyre. He saw it arrive.
But they said it was a gas tank, no?
He claims that the CID report was one big whitewash. That, with his own eyes, he saw a Peugeot drive into the area. And there was no explosion until after that.
You don’t say.
He sent letters to the editors of different newspapers every week.
Wow.
It wasn’t until we arrived here that he stopped that craziness.
Tell me…Maybe we should drive around to try and find him? It’s been…quite a while.
She looked at her watch. Then at the side mirror.
